


doll

by Bookreader525



Category: Sharp Objects (TV), Sharp Objects - Gillian Flynn
Genre: Gen, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-06 17:17:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15890523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookreader525/pseuds/Bookreader525
Summary: Amma reflects.





	doll

**Author's Note:**

> basically just a jumble of her messed-up thoughts. this is based on the tv version.

Sitting on the floor in her sister's apartment, scraping a fork among the dregs of Chinese takeout, Amma comes to five realizations.

* * *

 

One: She might be a reincarnation. Or a doll. Or a reincarnated doll.

She remembers her mother breaking down one night, during a party at the house. These parties, of course, were simply labeled "little get-togethers" by Adora, but everybody knew what these events were: big, lavish, and all attention always drawn to something exciting or tragic.

Her mother chose the perfect moment for the meltdown, too— standing in the heart of the crowd, a picture of her lost daughter clasped in one hand, and her youngest child within arm's reach.

"Oh, Marian," Adora keened, and the heads turned. "Poor Marian." And Amma, standing nearby watching pale, almost colorless lemonade swirl in her glass, felt an arm wrap behind her shoulders and drag her closer. "Sometimes it just… hits me all over again," she explained feverishly to the onlookers. "And then I thank God I still have one child here with me."

Sympathetic murmurs, gathering in close to see Marian's picture, marveling, fawning, gushing.

She— Amma, not Marian— stayed still, not making a peep, hair arranged perfectly into a braid that trailed down her back. Her dress, made for a doll but fitted for her, was cotton. Lemons danced across the fabric, a cheerful pattern with yellow stitching to match. A yellow ribbon was in her hair, too, she remembers. Two, in fact; one securing the plait at the bottom and one woven in among the blonde locks.

Pairs of eyes flashed from her to Marian, Marian to her.  _Amma looks quite like her,_ someone noted. Amma parted her lips, and the words hung in the air bitterly.  _The blonde hair_ — tied back, tamed—  _and the light eyes_ — narrowed, diluted cerulean—  _and the smile_ — lips taut, maybe a little bit of teeth— and Amma ducked her head down, shying away from the scrutinizing gazes.

Next to her, Adora hummed. Her grin was a sponge soaking up all the adoring comments. Another compliment, the grin grew. The corners of red-painted lips inched closer to lightly powdered cheeks.

Eventually, the audience dispersed again, off to gossip in new rooms about other things. Amma drifted, swirling the white lemonade in her glass, and her ears caught and followed bits of conversation.

_They have the same father, after all. She never talks about the oldest one._

_Heaven knows what a lack of a solid paternal figure did to ruin her. Yes, of course, there was Alan, after a while. But he's Alan._

_The oldest. Camille. She was the incorrigible one. Marian was the angel who got her wings too soon. And the youngest— well, you have to admit she's like another attempt at Marian._

Whispers darted about, snaking along the walls. Tickling Amma's trembling fingertips.

_… would've named her Marian the second if she had it her way!_

What a laugh.

_I swear, I remember seeing Marian wearing the same exact dress years ago._

Her hand moved to the fabric and pinched a lemon between thumb and index finger.

Later that night, she had felt a little ill. Adora tucked her into bed, holding the crumpled lemon dress between delicate fingers.

Amma shifted uncomfortably in the nightgown. A layer of sweat burned on her forehead.

"It was too much of that lemonade, that must be it," her mother said, smoothing the covers. "Too much sugar. Rots your teeth and makes your stomach boil over."

She ran her tongue over her teeth. "Mama," she asked, "Were you happy when I was born?"

Adora leaned down and stroked her hair. "Very, very happy."

_Poor Amma,_  they murmured at the party that evening in late August.  _She wouldn't be here if Marian was still alive. They're just dressin' her up like the new Marian doll._

The new Marian doll. Amma burrowed deeper into the sheets as dawn gathered outside the window. Should've just dug up little Marian's corpse and dressed it up good as new. Lemon dress to cover the dull skin, Adora's nimble fingers could work with that zombie hair. For the funeral, they dressed her up just so.

But that's why people burn things. To resist the temptation.

And so that settled it. Camille was the bad apple (elusive, never seen, no pictures on the wall, escaped), Marian was the good apple that had fallen and rotted, and Amma was anything but herself. An apple with just a few bruises and bad spots. She rolled over and shut her eyes.

* * *

 

Two: Boys are easier.

The nights she was free, Wind Gap was her playground. Dolls don't always sleep in the doll house, Mama.

With her friends, hair loose and untamed, blonde waves spilling down her back and catching the breeze. Roller skates rumbling along the pavement. Shorts so short, there was more of her legs to show off. No bra, a top that covered the bare minimum, low-cut, tied off just above her belly button. Arms spread wide, hollering with every last ounce of air in her lungs.

The streets were deserted, maybe an old clunker passing every now and then. Past the convenience store, past the bar, past the adult store with the "U" that flickered in the neon sign.

AD LT STORE. Someone yelled after them. ADULT STORE. She turned, skates scraping.

She was used to getting looks (double takes, leers), but actual catcalls were rare. She looked older than her age, but whatever age she looked still wasn't old enough.

They hopped into an old Jeep with rust on the bumper and cigarette burns marked into the seats inside. Speeding going seventy-five through the town center, there was a flash of red and blue lights but the cop didn't bother following through with it.

They arrived at the party. She drank some, but put more focus into getting high that night. The smoke rushed into her and settled in her lungs. Her eyes rolled back into her head. She laughed.

_You're beautiful. How old are you?_

She snorted. She could lie, but she didn't feel like lying.  _Thirteen,_  she said.

_Eh, good enough._

She wanted to be more than good enough. Play hard to get, she figured. When he tried to touch her, she dodged him. Not even the smallest patch of skin was reachable. He growled and she smirked.

_C'mere, blondie._

Her skin, evenly tanned by the Missouri sun, tingled under his fleeting touch. She let him do what he wanted, but made sure she was slow with her returned affection.

His lips found hers in the dark room. He forced his tongue into her mouth. Hands traveled under her shirt. She grunted, breathed heavy through her nose. This was nice enough. A few more of these and one of them would be bound to take her virginity.

It was dusk when she made out with a girl, another time. Outside, under the shade of a tree. Her lips were soft, Amma remembers, and she remembers winding a brunette strand around her finger. A vague, sweet taste, maybe green tea, lingering on her tongue. Amma lost herself in the kiss, wandering off into a strange land that no material drug could conjure up. She lost control. It made her heart speed up and jump into her throat.

That was why she stuck with boys for pleasure under covers, and why she went to girls for pleasure and pain. It was such a thin, wavering line.

* * *

 

Three: cold vegetable lo mein isn't as good as hot vegetable lo mein.

Hours ago, Camille had ordered the Chinese food over the phone, hushed, panicked. Now the last few bites of noodles, pea pods, and water chestnuts sit in the container in Amma's lap. She slumps down, banging her head gently again and again against the wall. Shadows dapple the ceiling and drip down the opposite wall.

It was nice of her sister, to get her food before the police arrived. Still, the three-digit number has yet to be dialed. Camille had disappeared into her room two hours ago. Amma is almost out of bites of food to chew and swallow, to fill the time.

From where she sits, she can see the tooth lying on the floor in her room. A pearly white dot that now defines her entire existence. Mama is in prison, her father remains his useless doormat self back home. Wind Gap is gone, Wind Gap is in the past, but the past has become the present again. Her big sister Marian is dead, and Amma has become her sister's rotting body, something that burned away long ago. She has nothing left. She knows this. Camille can't even look her in the eye. She'd dropped the tooth in horror, don't tell Mama, and look now, still no handcuffs around her wrists, no orange jumpsuit on her body.

She chews the noodles thoughtfully, grinding them slowly between her back molars. Camille will call. The handcuffs will be around her wrists, the orange jumpsuit will be on her body.

She will turn fourteen in jail.

She only did what comforted her. Maybe Marian would've been like her, if she lived long enough. Should've been stronger, than Amma would never have to be fucking born.

* * *

 

Four: Teeth don't burn.

Burning the doll house would be a terrific idea— but she'd worked too hard to recreate that terrific, terrific ivory floor. There was no time to burn it, anyway. How could she destroy evidence, when Camille scooped her up practically the second Adora was arrested? Threw Amma into her shitty old Volvo as soon as they were out of the hospital. Sitting in the passenger seat, the air conditioner no longer worked so the windows were down. The wind teasing her hair, she swiped it out of her face, cast her older sister a glance. The poison was scraped clean out of her, but now her belly ached from the hollowness.

And teeth, well, teeth just didn't burn. Not as well as flesh, anyway. She had Googled just about every possibility, and watched intriguing videos. Flames would eat up the flesh until the skin looked like molten lava, until it melted off the bones like candle wax.

Amma sat in her mother's dining room, watched the white candle on the center of the table dwindle to a puddle, and thought about reducing her victims to skeletons. But Natalie had been fun to pose in the alley way. She posed her like a doll, leaning her against the dirty bricks. Mouth drooping open, gums bloody. Amma chuckled at the thought. It was funny how they went out with such a violent struggle; then, once the life was gone, they could be posed like playthings. Adora could edit her youngest daughter, nitpick at the details, not a hair out of place. Amma had her dolls, too, though. Oh yes. She smiled. She had her dolls too. Shame she had to give 'em up after a while.

She could reduce them to ashes, reduce the doll house to soot, but the teeth would be much more difficult to be rid of. Camille had to snoop, of course, she had to snoop. Amma wondered if Mae's mother had come by asking for her daughter yet.

She walked over and lingered in her doorway, saw Camille kneeling on the floor with a piece of ivory between her thumb and index finger. Amma lifted her brows, dragged her teeth along her lower lip. Her sister's head jerked up. Devastation was written between the lines in her forehead, shock was apparent in the sudden paling of her face.

Amma felt a bit empty. Probably hungry. She'd been hoping to get pizza for dinner tonight.

Well. What to say.

"Don't tell Mama," she said to Camille. The tooth fell and hit the floor with no sound at all.

Camille would've cared for her too. She could've been good for her, sick for her. She didn't need the stuff from the blue bottle. She had been so close.

* * *

 

Five: Camille won't tell Mama.

She could tell everyone else in the world, but she won't fucking tell Mama bear. Camille won't be the one to tell, but she will be the one to call.

Amma freezes, listens hard, and thinks she can hear a voice coming from behind her sister's shut door.

At least, she consoles herself, she is the only thing on Camille's mind right now.

Her fork stabs a piece of carrot. Someone will care for her in prison.

She lets that thought lull her, and she slouches down further on the wall. Her legs unbend and lay flat on the floor.

This ain't her fault. This was all Mama. She just responded to the pain.


End file.
